


The Ash that Covers the Land

by blackbirdsfolly



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: A little bit of blood, A little heavy on the lore in the beginning but stick with it, Gen, Like actual manual labor slavery, Slavery, Technically canon divergent, not in a sexual way - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 06:08:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13897920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackbirdsfolly/pseuds/blackbirdsfolly
Summary: Maybe someday, she, too, could gain her independence.





	The Ash that Covers the Land

The sun’s rays beat down upon the saltrice fields- but don’t be fooled, the island of Solstheim just off the coast of Skyrim was almost always cold. Ancient Skaal legends say that the island of Solstheim was once a piece of Skyrim itself, and that it was created during a battle between the two dragon priests, The Guardian and The Traitor, sometime in the Merethic Era. Said battle took place in the northern regions of the snowy province, and it was said to be so destructive that it tore a piece of the land away from the main continent of Tamriel. 

The Argonian raised the rake high above her head, her blistered, bloody, scaly hands rubbing uncomfortably against the rough wooden handle. She brought the rake down and the long, rusty prongs at the end of the tool dug itself deep into the dry soil. She brought the rake along the ground, working the dirt. Other slaves, not unlike herself, worked alongside her, tending to the fields which seemed to stretch endlessly into the horizon.   
The Argonian looked up for a heartbeat, catching the eye of a muscular, heavily-armored Dunmer guard. The Argonian’s blood ran cold for a moment, whether from fear, or sheer hatred for the red-eyed Elves, she could not tell. A gruff, heavily-accented voice reached her ears.   
“Get back to work, number 23!” one Dunmer called from somewhere behind her. 23. Her number. Her “masters,” as she was forced to call even the lowest-ranking guards, called their slaves by number rather than giving them actual names. She continued to work, the cold air seeping into her bones through the thin fabric of her clothes. She heaved a heavy sigh as she fell into the familiar, monotonous rhythm of working the ground to prepare to plant. The day was almost over, and soon the guards would lead them back to their cells. 

23 had never known her real name, or even who her parents were. When she had just hatched, her wide, golden eyes staring up at the blazing sun overhead for the first time, she was almost immediately taken from her hatching place, along with her siblings. She was thrown into a small, dark, damp cell where she was fed rather irregularly. This almost cage-like prison was where she grew up until she was of the right age to start working in the saltrice fields, and when that day rolled around, she was handed two rough articles of clothing made of scratchy canvas. She could tell from the putrid stench of sweat and blood that she was not the first to wear the old trousers and torn-up tunic, however she would rather not think about the fate the previous owner had met.   
While working in the fields one day, however, the young 23 heard a defiant snort from somewhere across the field. She looked up, momentarily pausing her work, to see who had made the noise. It was a Khajiit, who looked to be no more than twelve. She was short and scrawny, with brown fur and markings resembling those of a tabby cat. Her ears were flattened against her skull and her long, whip-like tail thrashed, smacking against the saltrice plants. A guard clad in bonemold armor stood in front of her, towering over the young girl with his arms crossed over his chest.   
“Don’t test me, cat,” he spat, moving his helmet-clad face closer to the girl so that they were face-to-face rather aggressively. The Khajiit’s lip curled up in an ugly sneer.  
“Or what, you’re going to beat me?” she snarled sarcastically, “or perhaps you won’t feed me for a few days? I can handle anything you throw at me, you pathetic cretin.”  
The guard that the Khajiit had so sardonically ridiculed raised the sword and struck her. It smashed into her face, right along her muzzle and she staggered, however the gallant cat did not fall. Blood splattered the ground, soaking into the soil and turning its usual grey color into a dark crimson.   
“Be thankful I didn’t just cut your head clean off your shoulders,” the guard hissed, sheathing his sword once more and walking away, returning to his post. The Khajiit huffed in a hostile manner and turned around, picked up the rake she had discarded in her verbal scrap with the Dunmer guard, and continued working at the soil, ignoring the long cut across her face, which was dripping blood onto her hands and splattering on the ground.  
On their way back to their cells, 23 had been lucky enough to be placed behind the Khajiit she had seen earlier that day. 23 walked a bit faster, ignoring the choking cries of disdain and contempt emitting from her fellow slaves as the chains linking them all together by the necks were pulled taught. When she was finally within earshot of the other, she asked,  
“Why did you do that? You know you can’t beat the guards.” the Khajiit turned around ever so slightly to face 23, her narrow amber eyes straining to see her in the dim light.   
“Because someday, I’m going escape, and I want the guards to remember me as the one they couldn’t bend. You should not succumb to their will- that is not the mindset a young Argonian such as yourself should have,” the Khajiit’s response was brisk and she didn’t seem to have a very patient personality in general. 23 didn’t reply, however she mulled over these words for the rest of the night. Maybe someday, she, too, could gain her independence.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, my first story up here and it doesn’t even contain any canon characters, whoops. I’ve had this account for like a year and haven’t even logged on since my Eddsworld days. Anyhow, enjoy this little snippet of backstory for Evelyn and Ahara, my two Skyrim OCs.


End file.
